


Love, Sex, and Treasure Hunting

by CrazyPierrsonMan



Category: Tomb Raider & Related Fandoms, Tomb Raider (Video Game)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, M/M, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 04:42:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11328831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrazyPierrsonMan/pseuds/CrazyPierrsonMan
Summary: WARNING: NSFW! A couple years before the events in Tomb Raider: Chronicles' Rome levels, Pierre and Larson were already business partners—but how did they become romantic partners as well? A night of passion in London sheds the light on the situation...





	Love, Sex, and Treasure Hunting

 “Aw, c’mon, Boss,” Larson pleaded.

“ _Non,_ ” Pierre shot back, punctuating his dismissal with a point of his index finger. “It is  _my_  turn. Listen to Monsieur and do as he says,  _oui?_ ”

Larson rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, his fingertips brushing against the golden hair on his arms. “I don’t think this needs discussed any more, Pierre,” said the younger of the two, eschewing pet names for his lover. “You know I don’t like that as much no more when I’m with men. Gimme what I need or I’ll find it someplace else.”

“ _Oui,_  you go and do that. And you will come crawling back when he hasn’t made love to you as tenderly as I do.”

Larson gaped, his brow furrowed. Huffing, he tried to come up with a comeback—but his mind stayed blank. Instead, he elected to growl in frustration, raising his arms up, and left, slamming the door of the mediocre Naples hotel.

Pierre sighed, feeling frazzled himself. Shuffling over to the bed, Pierre unbuttoned his white dress shirt and flopped on the bed.

Taking a couple of minutes to collect himself, the mature man lifted his left hand toward his chest, running his hands through his chest hair. Lazily traveling his hand upward, Pierre brushed his fingers against his goatee, and chuckled with a bemused smile on his face. Even when they’re fighting, his cowboy couldn’t leave his thoughts.

Closing his eyes, Pierre let himself relax and begin to reminisce…

 

***

 

It had been at least two years since Pierre Dupont had met Larson Conway. A little pub in Spain is where Lady Fate wove these two treasure hunters together—working for fortune, not the thrill of it.

The two had individually heard of the Esfera de Dios, a round artifact made of gold and sapphire said to hold the power of the Almighty Himself. Larson had abandoned his station as a mercenary for the US Army to seek it, while Pierre was merely chasing after fortune. They both happened to wind up at the same informant.

Just like the day of the fight, Larson forced Pierre to meet his demands—

“Ain’t no way in hell I’m lettin’ you get all the sweet cash from my relic!”

But Pierre was able to persuade him easily: “Have you had much luck yet, ah?  _Non,_  you have been searching for many months now. This is not the first time I have heard of you, Monsieur Conway. If we were to join together, you would find it with more ease. I give my vow that you will not be swindled—not by me nor any vagabond who would buy the Esfera.”

It was a pact. Pierre’s first impression was that Larson was a damned handsome man, but there were even handsomer men he’d made deals with, so swallowing any rising lust, Pierre took Larson on the duo’s first expedition, spelunking into a deep cavern as they would so many times in the future.

Finding the Esfera laying above a pit of molten rock, the two had clambered up carefully, but Pierre slipped—and Larson saved his life. Grabbing Pierre’s arm, he dragged him up onto the platform that the artifact was laying on with one hand, in a miraculous, Herculean effort.

Pierre would be lying if he said that wasn’t the moment he started to fall for Larson.

Honest to God, Pierre thought that Larson was straight, and nothing but. Americans weren’t exactly the most liberal-minded, especially those in the South. When he was last down there, tailing a mystical ring rumored to belong to the Freemasons, he’d managed to visit a few bars on downtime—and the men there had rings of their own on their fingers; lying to themselves to indulge in their true pleasures, yet keep the status quo.

There was no way on Earth that Pierre thought his rugged companion was interested at all in pleasing men.

Some months later, the pair were still living it up from the cool million they’d split evenly, and were adamant about using it to let them keep living the good life. Larson opted for an upscale London hotel, flying first class to an upscale Penthouse Suite to enjoy a life of room service, fluffy beds, and—best of all—hot showers.

Pierre had assumed he’d just end up leaving to hopefully meet some bloke in a tavern someplace, take him to an alleyway or, if he was lucky, the guy’s flat. Larson, with his dashing good looks, gorgeous golden body hair, soothing, reassuring voice, and the obvious package he’d kept stowed away in his pants, would have no trouble attracting a woman—or two!—to celebrate with, so Pierre had decided he’d let his companion have the suite to himself.

But first, he decided to have a nice, relaxing shower.

Larson seemed like a giddy little kid, running around and looking at the giant twin vases on either side of the door, the jacuzzi, the  _minibar…_  He didn’t bother to tell him he’d be using the master shower.

Pierre was so impatient to be in the hot running water that he didn’t give half a shit about his clothes; his leather jacket thrown off, brown vest, white shirt, canvas pants, and jock strap thrown off in abandon. He didn’t even wait for the water to warm itself; he almost wanted to experience the water change temperatures for himself.

In fact, he was in so great of a hurry to be underneath a real shower head, Pierre had even forgotten to close the restroom door, apparently… and had zero clue that Larson might be watching.

Larson slowly, quietly made his way into the restroom and watched Pierre soap up his feet and deliciously hairy legs, sighing slightly beneath the steaming downpour. He ran the bar across the fur on his toned abs, his thick pecs, and brushed shampoo through his hair. As a shower time tradition—and since he was going out and perhaps getting some ass tonight—Pierre had saved washing his cock and balls for last, tugging lightly on his shaft in anticipation with his left hand, while his right cleaned the soap from the hair above his package.

It was then that Pierre stopped abruptly, and for a split second, Larson thought he might’ve been caught. He stared at Pierre’s side profile—the brown hair matted to his forehead and temples, his body hair looking even more delectably darker and defined while wet, and his half-hard cock beneath a bush Larson just wanted to run his hands through  _now—_ but Pierre remained ignorant of his voyeur.

Instead, he lathered up the lavender-scented bar of soap in his hands, and, after setting it down in its tray, began to soap up the inside of his ass, slipping a few fingers inside his hole for good measure.

“Aw,  _hell_  yeah,” Larson whispered, reaching down to grab his now-hard dick through his jeans.

Pierre, nearing the end of his shower, had realized that he just might get lucky enough to bottom that night. While he considered himself to be a ‘switch,’ bottoming was his more favored pastime in the bedroom; it was his treasured way of destressing, letting a man pound his hole so hard that he didn’t need to remember the collapsing caves, mercenaries after him,  _skeletons reanimating_ …

Just the sound of flesh on flesh, a hand giving the occasional spank, and a man whispering in his ear that he was going to unload deep in his tight, round ass.

Rinsing the soap from between his cheeks, Pierre turned off the water. He mused that he hadn’t even taken the time to grab a towel before he went in the shower, and anticipated having to drip all over his clothes and the restroom tile to look for one. He decided he’d look in the cabinet by the vanity first, but a hand thrust itself into the shower.

“Somethin’ for yer troubles, soapy-ass,” came a grinning Larson.

Pierre’s heart dropped immediately, a sinking feeling in his stomach. Was he going to have to explain himself? He could say it was a cultural thing. He could tell Larson it was none of his business. Was he going to have to run for his magnums? Did he have  _time_ to?

He kept quiet. Larson watched Pierre as he toweled off, their gazes still locking. It… it was almost like he was watching him  _predatorily._ Now dry, Pierre’d had time to formulate his thoughts. “That… See, my dear Larson, what you saw was—” he hesitated, for only a moment. “—a, er, result of French culture. In Nantes, if a man does not wash the inside of his  _derrière_ so thoroughly _,_  then—”

“Ya can’t fool me, Boss. You gave that a good, clean washin’. The only men I know to do that are queers. Y’know what I do with queers who look like you, Pierre?”

 _‘Bon sang,’_ Pierre cursed to himself. He was prepared to make a run for it, go and grab his magnum pistols laying in the other room, but Larson was too quick. He’d grabbed him by the arm, his stubbled face so close and menacing in Pierre’s.

“This is what you get, Boss.”

Pierre closed his eyes tight, bracing himself for whatever punishment his companion had to give him, but instead felt a mouth on his, stubble clashing into beard. Pierre slowly opened his eyes, brow furrowed with eyes wide.

“Wha—Larson, you—?”

He couldn’t say it. He didn’t know how to react. Was he the same as those other men, closeted but chasing women openly? Pierre knew Larson to whistle and catcall at women, and to almost exclusively hit on them at the pub. Hell, for all he knew, Larson had gone  _home_  with those women at times.

Chuckling heartily, Larson looked Pierre up and down with that predatory look in his eyes. “Who’s to say I ain’t a queer either? Well, halfa one, I guess. Hahaha!”

The pieces assembled themselves, and Pierre felt himself relaxing, but still slightly confused.

Larson continued. “I wasn’t so sure ‘bout you, Boss. Thought you were married to adventure. Y’didn’t seem interested in the fine ladies we’d met in our little trip, but I never imagined you swung for guys. Damn, I got lucky. Never woulda looked twice at that filly in Nicaragua if I’d known you liked  _dick,”_ he said, groping himself with the hand not holding Pierre’s wrist.

“How’s about it, Pierre?” Larson purred, licking his lips. “You like American boys?”

Pierre grinned, regaining his composure. Lifting his other hand to Larson’s, he touched Larson’s hand and he willingly released him. “Why, Larson,  _mon cher_ ,” Pierre began, “American men are one of my favorite pleasures to partake of.”

Still, something was… conflicted, within him. He needed to be sure, give Larson one last chance to reject.

“But, ah, do you like men so much older? And after all, we  _are_ business partners, you see, and—”

Larson silenced Pierre by putting his hands around the other’s shoulders and kissing him deeply in the mouth, his tongue working its way inside Pierre’s mouth. Tongues running across one another, Larson reached down and ran his fingers through his companion’s wet hair, running down his back to grab at Pierre’s soft, round ass. Pierre receptively reached between them to grab the stiffness that had grown within Larson’s jeans, hoping to feel it with no barriers soon.

Larson chuckled mid-kiss, and they broke apart. “First guy I ever dicked down was old enough to be my Daddy,” Larson blurted. “’Course,  _he_  was the one callin’  _me_  Daddy in the end,” and at that, he laughed. Pierre let himself chuckle as well—the occasional pun Larson thought up always had a good humor in it.

“C’mon, baby. Lemme get buck naked and show you what I’m workin’ with.”

Hand in hand, the men moved to the bedroom of the suite. Pierre threw himself on the bed back first, and stroked his cock, stopping to run his finger into his foreskin, spreading around the pre-cum that had flowed from the slit of his dick’s head.

“Hot  _damn_ , Boss,” Larson crooned. “Y’know, I’ve always had a little bit of a thing for guys with a nice foreskin. And that’s the nicest I’ve seen.” Larson man unbuttoned his red flannel shirt, one by one, and dropped it on the ground behind him.

Pierre licked his lips; if he was considered ‘hairy,’ Larson was  _hirsute—_ the blond chest hair was thick and abundant across his pectorals, and on his abs, a gorgeous treasure trail. He stopped for a moment to throw off his boots and socks, and resumed disrobing by unbuckling his belt.

Larson shucked off his pants and boxer-briefs and freed a massive, throbbing erection.  _‘Bon sang,’_  Pierre cursed to himself again. Larson, of course, was circumcised, but it didn’t make his cock look any less magnificent.

Jutting out at an angle away from his body, Larson’s member had to at least be 21 centimeters long. It stood proud amongst a thick blond bush that ran down to his balls. The hair continued across his thighs and calves, ending with some sparsely-furred feet.

Running his hands through his chest hair, Pierre grinned at the sight of the now-naked Larson and remarked, “You know, Larson, I’ve always had a, how you say,  _little bit of a thing_  for men with hairy chests.”

Larson guffawed a bit and crawled onto the bed. “Well, Boss, I’m happy to oblige. Now how ‘bout we cut the chatter to a minimum and get  _manly?_ ” Pierre obliged, taking Larson’s mouth on his again, tongues running across each other in tender, soft kisses. Pierre’s arms rose to wrap around Larson’s shoulders, with Larson roaming his hands across his torso.

Larson soon pulled away, kissing down Pierre’s chest and stomach as Pierre lifted his hands to run through Larson’s hair. Toward the crotch, Larson took a moment to inhale the soapy-clean scent of Pierre’s pubic hair.

Opening his mouth, Larson traced a line from the bottom of Pierre’s shaft to the hooded head. Pierre’s breath quickened as Larson slid his tongue under his foreskin, swirling slowly around the glans. Larson stroked Pierre’s dick slowly, and finally rolled back the skin on Pierre’s dick’s head. Planting a kiss on the tip, Larson lapped at the head of Pierre’s cock and opened his mouth to suck all 16 centimeters down to the base.

Pierre groaned and leaned his head back on the soft pillows, relaxing his left arm on the silken duvet while his right hand remained on Larson’s head, running his hand through the golden hair and stroking his scalp gently. Larson ran his tongue against the underside of the cock in his mouth, sucking Pierre so  _exquisitely_ when he reached the end of the shaft.

Brown eyes intently on a blond head, Pierre watched Larson move lower to taste his balls, a markedly experienced tongue rolling across his hairy balls. It wasn’t there long, though; the roving tongue wandered lower to Pierre’s perineum and then to his ass.

Larson readjusted his body to double over as Pierre shifted his weight to his back, inadvertently releasing a small grunt of exertion as he grasped his knees. His hairy asshole was completely exposed to Larson who proceeded to raise his hands to grasp a cheek on either side, then lower his mouth directly to the pucker and prod at it with a cruelly pleasant tongue.

Pierre sighed in content as Larson’s mouth explored the inside of his ass, dipping the tip of his tongue inside the hole itself and lubricating what he soon would fuck. Each twist of his tongue made Pierre desire Larson more, wanting to take him deep all night long.

His cock was dripping pre-cum down his stomach—Pierre could never recall a time he was more aroused. After all, the man of his damn dreams was above him, tongue up his ass, eating him out like there was no tomorrow. There was so much Pierre wanted to do in that night. Their relationship was a business one, currently-ongoing sex aside; he could lose this gorgeous man in an instant. But sex, to Pierre Dupont, was never about just one person, and so he cleared his throat and spoke.

“Larson,  _mon cher_ ,” he began, “Monsieur would like you to use your fingers to prepare him.”

Larson looked up at Pierre, eyebrows raising in confusion. For a solid 30 seconds, Larson, open-mouthed, tongue inside Pierre’s ass, stared into Pierre’s eyes. The silence was deafening, but to Pierre, it made the night all the more memorable.

“Finger me, you dolt,” Pierre spat out. Larson made an audible  _‘Ohhh,’_ —which Pierre felt rumbled against his hole—and Larson changed his position again, leaning backward to get a better view of Pierre’s ass, his knees bracing Pierre’s back. Larson quickly popped two of his fingers in his mouth to wet them, then just as quickly began to work them into Pierre’s asshole.

“God- _damn,_  Boss, yer tight like a vice,” rumbled Larson, and Pierre grunted at the intrusion. Slightly hooking his fingers within Pierre, Larson slowly,  _agonizingly_  lowered his right index and middle fingers into Pierre, only to drag them out again and drive them within once more.

After what seemed like an eternity, Larson finally withdrew his fingers and gazed down hungrily at Pierre, who lowered his rear to rest on Larson’s thighs. “I think yer ready, Boss. Flip over and spread that hole open for me, baby.”

Pierre slid off Larson’s thighs and turned around, placing his head onto the comfortable pillows and raising his ass up, arcing his back to enhance the view and—hopefully—entice his companion even more. Reaching backward, he took each of his ass cheeks in either hand and spread them, showing off his pink pucker to Larson.

“I’m gonna dick you real good, Boss,” Larson promised, to which Pierre couldn’t help but laugh.

“Make me feel  _très fantastique, mon ami,_ ” was all Pierre could think to reply.

Staring at Pierre’s round, hairy ass, Larson slowly sunk his magnificent cock into his awaiting hole.

Pierre retracted his arms and used them to brace himself against the covers as Larson went deeper, his girth stretching him wide open.

Seated in to the hilt, Larson took a moment to catch his breath. Pierre panted at the sheer size of the cock inside him, his own dick stiff and hard and leaking onto the duvet. Though his book smarts could always be called into question, there was no doubt that Larson Conway knew a hell of a lot about pleasing a man. Larson sat there, hard yet unmoving within Pierre’s ass, waiting for him to adjust.

A few minutes passed before Pierre decided that he couldn’t handle it anymore, and rocked himself back and forth a bit.

“Whoa now,” Larson gasped, steadying his ass in his hands, “Y’sure yer OK boss? Feelin’ good?”

Pierre looked back into Larson’s hazel eyes and exhaled before saying, “Larson.  _Mon ami. Mon cher_. For the love of God,  _fuck me_. Fuck me like I am the last whore you’ll ever get to put your cock in.”

Larson gulped, licking his lips, his dick twitching slightly at the idea. “B-but Boss, are you sure? I mean, I don’t wanna hurt ya, and—”

Pierre cut him off by bucking his hips backward, beginning to fuck himself on Larson’s dick. “Pound me. Fill me with your cum. This is what Monsieur likes, ah?”

Pierre turned his head back to face the headboard as he backed up and down Larson’s thick shaft. Larson groaned as Pierre’s ass slapped into his thick pubic hair, and bit his lip in momentary indecision. For a moment, Pierre thought he’d be doing all the work, until he felt a sharp slap on his left ass cheek.

He could hear Larson laugh behind him as he said, “Well hell, y’don’t have to tell me twice.”

With a sharp jab of his hips, Larson thrust forcefully into Pierre’s ass, pulling back to repeat. Pierre moaned loudly, and Larson gripped the sides of his hips as he thrusted powerfully into the tight, willing hole. Pierre returned the thrusts in kind, skin smacking on skin as his shapely ass backed itself onto Larson’s cock.

Pierre closed his eyes, letting himself settle into a rhythm in time with Larson’s thrusting. The most gorgeous man he’d ever laid eyes on fucking him  _perfectly._ Larson driving deep inside him, Pierre sighed in pleasure, groaning as he raised his head up to lick his lips.

“G-goddamn, Boss, I-I’m sorry,” Larson stuttered, his voice husky with desire. “I’m, I’m gonna shoot soon. Yer so tight, don’t—be mad!”

Pierre panted as he opened his mouth to reply, “I feel… so good right now, Larson. You have done well by Monsieur.  _Oui,_ shoot your load.” His sentence was momentarily interrupted by a moan, eyes rolling up in pleasure. Breathily, Pierre begged, “ _S’il vous plaît?_ ”

“Heh.  _Oui,_ Boss, can do.” Larson picked up the pace—quick, short thrusts pounding Pierre as his groans intensified. One last, violent thrust kept Larson planted firmly within Pierre, his cum spilling deep inside.

Larson pulled back, giving a few more shallow thrusts to push his seed deeper inside his companion. Pierre had gotten everything he needed; he began to jerk his own cock like mad, wanting to let his own orgasm loose, but Larson had other plans; quickly, he gripped Pierre by his sides and flipped him over, mouth opening to quickly envelop Pierre’s cock.

The return of the wet heat was all Pierre needed to burst, and he unloaded into Larson’s mouth as he greedily drank down all of Pierre’s semen. Pierre gasped and panted, grabbing the sheets as he rode out his orgasm into Larson’s mouth.

With a grunt, Pierre collapsed back on the bed and Larson flopped next to him, kissing his companion on the cheek and patting him on the chest. No words were exchanged at first as both men laid there basking in the afterglow of the intense sex they’d just made.

Finally, Larson spoke, his simple-minded honesty getting the better of him as it had so many times previous. “Boss, would it be stupid to say that I think I love you?”

Pierre gazed into Larson’s eyes, brown eyes searching hazel for a lust-induced lie, for an idiot’s misguided belief in love. He found nothing of the sort within that hazel-colored heaven, only truth.

Pierre exhaled sharply through his nose, and replied: “ _Mon amour,_  then for once that would make us  _both_  stupid, as I believe I am in love also.”

Larson cuddled up to Pierre, resting his head in the crook of his neck. Pierre wrapped his arm around his new-found lover, running his fingers across his upper back.

Half-jokingly, Pierre murmured, “Perhaps, then, next time I could be on top? Take my cowboy cherry, ah?”

To this, Larson laughed and replied, “Ain’t been nothin’ virgin back there since I was 19, Boss. I sure as shoot like takin’ cock as much as I love givin’. I just figured you weren’t of the type to wanna do the doin’. I’ll bottom like a champion for ya, next time.”

It was a pact.

 

***

 

Opening his eyes, Pierre was brought back to the present, acutely aware that his cock was agonizingly hard and there was still no Larson in sight.  _Tsk_ ing to himself lightly, he unzipped his pants and freed his cock, staring at it almost disappointedly.

The first time he’d topped Larson was indeed wonderful, he mused as he took hold of his dick, but it seemed like every other time they went to have sex—and it was fairly regularly—they had an argument about who was going to bottom. Pierre absolutely adored it, but Larson claimed that Pierre was the only the second man who could ever do it how he wanted.

To avoid any potential lover’s quarrel, for the past few weeks, Pierre had been dicking down Larson without complaint. After all, it  _was_  a perfectly, deliciously round and hairy behind. But Pierre felt stressed with seeking his next big find.

Lara Croft, damn the woman, had beaten the duo to the past two artifacts. Their lives were much easier before they had ever met the dual pistols-toting daring dame—especially when there were several prominent assets of hers that Larson couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off of…

Trying to scrub the woman from his thoughts, Pierre brought up memories of the last time he bottomed for Larson—a nice view by the ocean, camped out in front of a cave holding some ancient necklace for a very rich client. Gazing into his lover’s eyes, begging for more, harder, faster, while Larson called him tenderly by name and told him how much he loved him, and loved  _fucking_  him…

The door opened just then, and Pierre’s jolted over to see Larson enter with a sheepish look on his face. Pierre took his hand off of his dick and cleared his throat. “Well?” he tried to spit, but there was no force behind it. He could never stay mad at his dumb little cowboy.

Larson sighed and said, “No man or woman could ever match up to you, Boss. I… Pierre, I’m sorry. I really fucked up, huh.”

Pierre stood up, tucking his softening dick back into his pants, and walked over to the doorway. He grabbed Larson’s hand, and lifted his stubbly chin with his fingertips.

“ _Non._  It is I who should be saying he’s sorry. I give you something no man has ever given, something you crave. Not just my cock, but… affection. And I spat in its face like it served me day-old escargot. And for that, I… give my apologies.”

“Aw, hell, Boss,” Larson said, grinning, “Thank ya kindly. You’re so damn good to me, I wanna keep you in a bottle for good luck. I love ya so much.”

Pierre smiled as Larson reached up to stroke a brunet goatee. “ _Mon amour._ Larson. I love you just as much.”

Larson leaned in for a kiss and Pierre returned it in kind, the two men’s tongues sliding across each other.

The two pulled apart. “I can top,” Pierre stated plainly, and led his lover toward the bed. Unbuckling his belt and unzipping his canvas pants, he removed his pants to reveal a freshly-stiffening member. “Get Monsieur in the mood first, ah?”

His cowboy chuckled, as he reached a hand over to his lover’s cock, pulling gently on the half-soft member. “Whatever Monsieur wants.”

 “Monsieur Dupont would appreciate it if Monsieur Conway would try to hold off on his climax so we can flip positions after he cums, yes?”

“Well gol- _lee,_ Boss, I think I might just about be into that idea.”


End file.
